The burner phone feels cold and heavy in Lu Manman's palm, a dead weight after the chilling voice on the other end. Her knuckles ache from the grip. The digital distortion still scrapes at the edges of her hearing, a promise of irreversible consequences, of sticking to the script. Her breath hitches, a raw, primal fear for Ji-hoon coiling in her gut, tight and sharp. She glances at Han Seul, still nestled on the sofa, a faint, rhythmic sound of sleep escaping her lips. The new plush rabbit is clutched to her chest, a silent testament to a small victory in a war that has just turned dangerously real. The symbol on the phone's casing, a stylized serpent entwined with a key, burns in her mind. The Serpent's Key. It's a name, a detail, from the shadowy corners of 'The Tyrant's Cold Revenge', a clandestine organization hinted at, rarely seen, always deadly. They were supposed to be background lore, not active enforcers in her living room. "System!" Her voice is a low, urgent whisper, a desperate plea into the silence of the large, opulent room. "Explain this. Explain everything. Who was that? What is the Serpent's Key? Where is Han Ji-hoon?" Silence. Not the usual instantaneous, placid interface of the System. This is a heavy, protracted quiet, like a machine grinding to a halt before it can even process the command. Her heart thuds against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden vacuum of information. She repeats the command, her voice rising slightly. "System, respond! Immediate data retrieval on current threats and the location of Han Ji-hoon! My child is missing, this is a priority!" A faint hum finally resonates, not in her ears, but directly in her consciousness, a familiar sensation that usually precedes a flood of data. This time, it feels strained, like a distant signal struggling through static. The delay stretches, an eternity measured in the frantic beats of her pulse. "RESPONSE INITIATED," the System's voice finally echoes, devoid of its usual crisp efficiency, almost hesitant. "WARNING: UNFORESEEN EXTERNAL VARIABLE DETECTED. PROTOCOL DEVIATIONS INITIATED. SYSTEM CORE FUNCTIONS TEMPORARILY RESTRICTED." Lu Manman's brow furrows. "Unforeseen external variable? What does that even mean? And 'protocol deviations'? Speak plainly, System! Who is interfering with the plot? Is it the Serpent's Key? Are they holding Ji-hoon?" Her questions hang in the air, unanswered. The System's response feels like a riddle, a frustrating evasion. It's never been like this, always direct, always clear, even when its tasks were outlandish. The chill that runs down her spine has nothing to do with the cool air conditioning of the mansion. "EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED," the System repeats, its tone flat, mechanical. "INFORMATION ON PARTIES INVOLVED CLASSIFIED. FURTHER INQUIRIES REGARDING PLOT ENFORCEMENT AND UNFORESEEN VARIABLES ARE CURRENTLY RESTRICTED DUE TO SYSTEM CORE FUNCTION LIMITATIONS." "Restricted?" Lu Manman grips the burner phone tighter, her knuckles white. "You're telling me you don't know, or you *can't* tell me? What about Han Ji-hoon? Is he safe? Where is he? My task is to save my children, how can I do that if you withhold vital information?" She paces the polished marble floor, her bare feet silent. The System's silence is deafening. It's not just a delay now; it's a wall. The hum in her head grows fainter, then fades almost entirely. She feels a profound isolation, standing alone in this gilded cage, facing a threat she can barely comprehend, with the one entity meant to guide her now turning opaque. "System, give me a location," she demands, her voice now a low, dangerous growl. "Give me *any* information that can help me find my son. Is he still in this city? Are they going to hurt him?" No response. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker in her internal vision, a fleeting glitch in the System's interface, like a pixel dying on a screen. Then, nothing. Just the vast, empty quiet of the room, punctuated only by Han Seul's soft breathing. Lu Manman presses again, a new edge of panic creeping into her voice. "System, this is unacceptable! You are bound to me! You are supposed to help me prevent their fates! This is part of the Original Plot, isn't it? The abandonment? Is this how it begins?" The System remains unresponsive, its digital presence now a gaping void. The usual flow of information, the subtle prompts, the ever-present point balance hovering in her peripheral vision – all are gone. It's as if the connection has been severed, or severely throttled. The warning about 'core functions temporarily restricted' now takes on a far more sinister meaning. She feels a sudden, profound shift. The System isn't the omniscient, benevolent guide she'd initially perceived. It's a tool, yes, but a compromised one, or perhaps one with its own hidden agenda, operating under constraints she cannot fathom. The illusion of control shatters, leaving her exposed, vulnerable. Her jaw sets. The System's silence, its sudden evasiveness, confirms her worst fears: she is truly alone in this fight. The 'Original Plot' isn't just a passive destiny; it's an active, predatory force, and the System itself might be just another piece on a board far larger than she'd imagined. The idea that it might not be entirely on her side, that it could be playing its own game, sends a cold dread through her. She looks around the lavish room, at the expensive furniture, the designer toys, the symbol of her 'super rich' status. None of it means anything if her children are in danger. The unlimited Master Card, the bonus points, the shiny new car – they feel like trinkets now, utterly useless against an invisible enemy. She was relying on the System's guidance, its tasks, its seemingly infallible knowledge. Now, that crutch has been kicked away. A bitter taste fills her mouth. The cold ambition she'd glimpsed in her reflection after acquiring the Ferrari now feels like a stark necessity. There's no room for hesitation, no time for self-pity. If the System won't tell her what to do, she'll have to figure it out herself. If it's restricted, then she has to be unrestricted. Her children are at stake, and that alone is enough. She clenches her fists, her gaze hardening. The fight isn't just against a predetermined plot anymore; it's against a shadowy organization and a System that has become untrustworthy. The weight of it all presses down on her, an immense, suffocating burden. But within that weight, a new, steely resolve begins to forge itself. She will not fail. She *cannot* fail. Failure means Ji-hoon’s fate, Seul’s fate, Jun’s fate. It means her own termination. The thought is a spur, sharp and painful. As she stands there, the silence of the house pressing in, a faint, almost subliminal image flashes across her inner vision: a shadowy figure, not from the novel, but from her past life, standing alone in a sterile, futuristic lab, a single tear tracing a path down their face.

Chapter 10: Echoes of a Glitch